Courtesy
Starlight Gardens A delicately designed tower of architectural artistry is found among the towers and residential housing along the gradual uphill slope extending northward from the city's central Chianar Plaza. The central lobby provides access to the main turbolift and is surrounded by a series of terraced gardens and a small, charmingly quaint, cafe that caters to the residents. Discrete plates of brushed durasteel indicate the tenants upon each, the one from the seventh floor includes the name: M. Becton Ambrosia(#4866PnACcF) A few fine lines of tension draw across the forehead and brow of this otherwise smooth, angular face. Eyes of jaded green watch the world from beneath well-manicured brows. High cheekbones slope with gentle transition into a long, slender nose and placid lips rest above a squarish jaw. Skin once kissed by the sun is now ashen and dull. Waist-length hair has a few shades of blond that blend well into a light, sandy mix. She's about 1.75 meters tall, long-limbed physique lean and willowy - a bit underfed. A silvery blue dress drapes loosely from its cinched tie around her throat, gathering just once under the bust and trailing to the floor, concealing legs and feet. Her arms remain exposed, fat shriveled away to leave just skin, bone, and modest muscle. The sides of her hair have been drawn up into a knot at the crown of her skull, leaving the rest to hang heavily to low back. Faintly puckered, pink blotches encircle the circumferance of her exposed throat, partially obscured by the dress's closure. Zeak Time has taken something of a toll on the man. Even though he is only in his late 30's, grey hair peaks out from the bottom edge of his black skoufia (a soft skull cap like hat that covers his head above the ears). Large grey eyes, hardened by decades of conflict and stress, sit on his face, often focused not on the present, but on something distant. His pale, Caucasian face is otherwise dominated by somewhat chubby cheeks, and a jaw reminiscent of the clone troopers of days gone by. Smile lines as well as crows feet have prematurely formed on his face. Today he is wearing a black double breasted cassock which is form fitting on the top and flows down to his feet. It has a mandarin collar, and is closed on the right side with hidden clasps, and open to move below the waist. In the rare moment they can be seen, black slacks are on his legs, which are tucked into tall black boots, which are reminiscent of the Imperial Navy. The Starlight Gardens - a fine, Alderanian blending of nature and architecture - not so different from the Casparian style... Taking pause from her "shopping" spree, Ambrosia reclines in a slouch-backed chair - metals organically wrought to curve and coil in imitation of the trailing vines dangling above from their trellis. She's taken up residency for a snack, a drink, and a hell of a view, nestled a few tiers up in the terraced gardens, overlooking the cafe below in this tower's lobby. A few store bags sit on the ground next to her, jealously guarded by one, side-sweeping leg which hooks a modest heel around the purchases. She seems alone, at a table for two, but there's no telling which eyes glancing her way from passerby are innocently curious, and which are hired help. There are two approaches to a convert contact, one is to be sneaky and just appear. The downside is that such entrances run the distinct risk of getting shot. Zeak chooses to take the longer approach, with a recently purchased book in hand he makes a long, slow approach looking over local shops and wares. He makes a mental note of a quaint toy shop he might take his kids to before entering the cafe, tipping the hostess (in crystalline vertex no less, not the choice of those trying to hide), and making his way toward Ambrosia's table. "Madam Ambasador," Zeak asks as he sets his gloved hand down on the chair opposite Ambrosia, "Is this seat taken?" Watchful eyes follow his last several meters of approach, the hand...the face its guiding arm eventually leads to. There's a bit of feral quality to the 'Madam' Ambassador's stare. When cornered, does this one choose fight, or flight? The realm of politics, of course, dictate a third option, and it's the one funding her recent purchases. "Mr Oppenhiemer," she greets in turn, arching her back out of its slouch and into a more proper posture. She offers her right hand cordially. "It's all yours, please. Did you find something to eat, down there?" Oppenhiemer takes Ambrosia's hand as he replies, "I do hope I'm not disturbing your R&R too much." As he sits he continues, "and I did have a little something yes, but I did order a drink on the way in, the hostess should have placed the order in the hopper. I can see why you like this area, it is very cheerful - I think my kids might enjoy a trip here next time I'm in-system." "Gabi always did," Ambrosia shares, on the topic of children, with a thin smile and gives a firm shake before remploying her hand to deliver straw to mouth. It's a fun, swirly drink of green and white, milky juices. The scent either blends with or gets lost in the nectar rich blooms surrounding them, however. "Of course, the temptation to climb in here is a bit much for any adventurous kid to overcome, so...be warned." Ahh. To converse without a surround of surveillance equipment, nosy droids, and demanding Intel agents. It's absolute, pure bliss. *Sluurp*. "I was just taking a breather from my assignment of the day...outfitting us with something other than hospital attire. I hear it's all the rage in some circles, but..." she wrinkles her nose and sets the glass back atop its watery ring. "Not really my taste." "Back into the fire so soon?" Oppenhiemer replies. He is about to say more before a waiter approaches with a tray bearing a small ceramic cup with a thick, dark, steaming liquid inside. "Your Etti stim-caff sir," she politely interjects with a large smile. It isn't every day that patron tips in what are literally cut gems. "Thank you," Oppenhiemer replies as he gladly takes the cup. Off-duty chic on Ord Mantell is something of a fashion unto itself and Amaya Halos models today one of its timeless classics 'the pilot swagger', a black leggings tucked into brown knee high boots, a pair of thick off-white socks peaking from their necks paired with a matching sleeveless vest, belted loosely around the natural waist beneath an unfastened flight jacket, shaded glasses hanging below the bustline from a thrice wound statement necklace in cloudy quartz. A small glossy bag hangs from the cradle of her elbow, its hot pink coloring a garish clash with the otherwise monochrome outfit and the siren song of hot caff that's not been on a rolling brew for three days draws the marine in to the idyllic little setting. Ambrosia raises a brow. "Not as far as I'd like to be. I don't think I'm to be trusted yet, but..." she shrugs. "There's a special place they're free to cram their suspicions...but I digress. Only part of the protocol, after all." Twisting aside to fish a hand into one of the bags, she clears her throat. Voice is still a bit husky from damages done. And out comes a hat! A very ludicrous hat, it is. A teal, rimless cap with a steeply, off-centered sweep UP the left side, creating a rough interpretation of an acute triangle. In the lower dip, there's a nest of white, silver, and blue feathers, nestled around a single, crystalline egg. With a comical, albeit uncharacteristic, flourish of her right arm, she dons the hat. "Completely practical purchase, certainly not a waste of funds used to embody a farce of an outing. I love it." Her wry smile says otherwise, of course. Zeak sips as he listens. After the first sip he fights back a grimace, perhaps the drink was made wrong, before continuing to drink it anyways. When the hat comes out he smiles, "I remember buying, and donning all sorts of wild things many years ago when I was undercover with my late-first wife, it is one of the perks." He stops there however, realizing that this is not the place to mourn those lost in the second battle of Coruscant, especially when they were wearing the uniform of the other side. It is one of the pitfalls of his life, a fragmented and compartmentalized existence, so Zeak rapidly changes the subject, "my daughter would no doubt love to see her mother in more colorful garb," which is also one stop from a name drop; Zeak hopes she's read his file. Now it is time for business, "I'm hoping the people of Caspar will get back to more normal lives soon, I'm hoping we can help them." There's no way to avoid looking at /that/ hat. And while the well-to-do clientele of this little cafe are at least subtle about eyeing it, Halos just stares until she's broken from her bemused entrancement by the abrupt force-cough of the man behind her in line and the prompting of a barista with her order, a fruit-muffin and a tall mug of something more cream than caff. Collecting the goods, she awkwardly fumbles her way through payment and emerging from the queue skims over the tables looking for that outrageous piece of headgear again. When she sees whose wearing it, there's nothing for it but to amble over. And amble she does, although having reached the table with her burdened hands she only then comes to the realization that it’s a damned awkward thing to /start/ a conversation when the last time you saw someone it was all but dragging them out of Imperial captivity and she stands there for a few seconds longer than is polite, completely speechless. The thought of Johanna dressed like a peacock causes Ambrosia's mouth to curl into a mild grimace of its own. Being that it is lacking the hair pins required to anchor it in place, the unbalance hat topples over her shoulder and gets caught between ... nothing, as her slow-to-react left arm fumbles with the task and catches nothing but air. Expensive hat gets dirty. Smirking, Ambrosia reaches back around and stuffs it back into the bag. "Gabi will think I've lost my mind..." "I'm hoping the Empire will leave well alone what is not theirs to govern, but..." the ambassador rolls her palms upward and drags her left leg away from its hoard of nonsense to cross over the right one. "Until their Minister and friends develop some gall and recognize the strength of their own people - those who have NOT forgotten wisdom of the past - I suppose all we can do is patch the wounds as they come. If what IGN was spouting is true, then it looks as though Lord Thel and his betters have tossed the scraps to the CSA to figure out. Yes?" She had done *some* homework. If the bags under her eyes are any indication, it's a task that's replaced the oh-so complicated art of sleeping. Gawk alert. A little siren flags her brain and she twitches her eyes a touch to the left, capturing the hovering face of Lt Halos. No words, just a curious arch of a brow and very subtle nod of her chin. *I see you there...* "I think there is more to it than that," Zeak replies, "Aldus Thel is . . ." The thought remains unfinished, as Zeak turns to the newcomer. Ambrosia seems comfortable, but he'd like an introduction before he continues. Halo still isn't exactly sure what to say. But now she's been noticed and if she spends any longer thinking about it she's going to move from 'awkward' into 'creepy' and there's just no coming back from that. Introductions seem like a fine idea, and she clears her throat before setting down a muffin on a small plate to extend a hand toward Zeak, the one she /doesn't/ know. "Amaya." it occurs only thereafter that Ambrosia still probably doesn't know her given name, or didn't at any rate. "Sorry to interrupt..." she continues directing her attention to the ambassador. "...just saw you, seemed to be doing better and...well, I actually don't know what I thought." fingers go looking for that muffin-on-saucer again. "Sorry." "A pompous ass," Ambrosia finishes Zeak's sentence for him seamlessly, uninhibited. Could be the drink. Could be the medication. Could be the ill-advised combination. Or...just a professional's opinion. She did get to spend considerable, personal time with the man, after all. *Sluurp* "That's quite all right," Ambrosia excuses 'Amaya', a slightly brighter smile creasing her cheeks. "It's nice to be out and about in fresher air, hm? I daresay, the Nemesis' crew must have had an accursed time filtering what remained of theirs. In danger of literally choking on their own waste..." Ahh, the conversations overhead in medbay. She clears her throat, looking back to Zeak. "Sorry." Zeak smiles, with the mention of the Nemesis and the mention of waste; his ship was in the system to see it, if only from a distance. "Amaya, Zeak Oppenhiemer," Zeak replies before glancing to a nearby chair, "if you have the Ambassador's trust, that is adequate for me." "I was actually going to say psychopath with a strong desire to rise up in the Imperial structure - which in this case is important because it is likely his real interest in Caspar and for involving the CSA." Zeak replies, before continuing, "Victory for him isn't dominating Caspar, it is in cutting off the Republic from a supply line, and winning a PR victory. Winning a big battle with the NR makes him look good with the Moffs, but he needs to do it without looking completely uncaring to the rest of us - hence the aid." "Wow..." Halo's terribly insightful contribution to the rather frank content of the conversation. "...not pulling any punches here, are we?" not that the name has recieved any more favourable assessments in the barracks, she seems surprised to encounter similar opinions on civvie-street. "Im not interrupting am I? I mean I have ways to express opinions about Imperial high-ups that'll make milk curdle...." a wary eye turned upon her drink. "...but I don't want to butt in on something, well.." she sort of gestures to whatever this is. Ambrosia tips an ear to Zeak, listening closely with a death grip on her tabletop beverage. To Halo, she motions to the table closest to their two-seater, where an abandoned couple chairs are up for grabs. She kicks her shopping bags under her own chair, freeing up a bit of space to her left, beside the terraced, garden wall. "Yes, I gathered as much," she sighs, when he is done. "my initial week in session there - Caspar. As soon as Captain Cen debriefed me midflight on the Empire's chief complaint against the CDU - weapons trade - I knew. It's a resource war, one we'd be very sore to lose. And so begun the smear campaign, against this little 'viper' and her nest of rebels. Nevermind the fourteen years of peace pacts and trade agreements I'd helped barter with the Caspian system. We evidently do not deserve a slice of that pie." Surely that's not a note of bitterness in her tone... "In keeping /with/ those treaties, I could not, in good faith, request an onslaught of naval forces to wage war in the space of a government who'd wanted no part of it, to begin with. Instead, I sat politely and listened to the poor, tired Minister vent her frustrations on me, buried the insults, and waited patiently for her to say the word...which never came. What did come, was a rabid rush of Caspar's citizens to pillage and burn my home, property of the New Republic, with my daughter still inside." A pause, while she considers what remains in her glass. "And so here we are." She gestures her left arm to encompass half of her view, damaged brain continuing to misfire its 'steady' command while the hand grooves to its own, twitchy beat. "One of us the living dead, and the other with an apparently large dilemma on his hands - how to deliver the aid, thereby sustaining the Caspian people, without making it look as though it was Aldus' gracious benevolence that made it all permissable." "No it is alright Amaya, this is just two people, with common interests and mutual friends sitting down for drink, nothing more. I suppose now there are three," Zeak calmly replies as he glances at his beverage disapprovingly before reaching for the sugar to improve it. "Honestly Ambassador, I'm less worried about how it look than how it plays out -- the amount of money involved is staggering so the Authority will go to great lengths and risks to see such profits. Furthermore the size of the flotilla required to make the first delivery in a day or two to make up for the lost supplies is equally impressive. Because of the piracy experienced by the Imperial shipments, some on the Direx would like the flotilla to be the cargo space on the CSA Strike group - an Imperial-class and two Victory class Star Destroyers along with a number of Dreadnoughts and Marauders. The fleet would be commanded by me in name only - in reality the Captains all owe their loyalty to the Captain of the CSAS Corporate Takeover, and he would be all too willing to throw in with the Imperials should a battle erupt while the CSA fleet is there. I, for obvious reasons, would like to instead use a collection of older ships, ones which are ill suited to a large battle -- but the pirates who attacked the Imperial shipments make that argument a difficult one to win." "And who do you think paid those pirates," Ambrosia murmurs, polishing off the last of her afternoon delight. "Tapped into my nestegg, it did, but there's room yet to tap a little more, if it makes them go away. I don't think they'll be opposed to taking vacation on our dollar. And I'm certainly not opposed to paying it, if it keeps additional Destroyers and Marauders out of that system." Pushing the glass a few inches away with an index finger, she folds her arms over her middle and leans elbows on knees. Time for another sweat fest. "If these 'pirates' were to suddenly disappear, what are the odds that your recommendation of the older ships would be deemed acceptable to stock the flotilla?" Halo regards Ambrosia with an expression of consternation. "You did /what/?" it might be inappropriate to address an ambassador that way. Or someone you barely know. "Are you /mad/? That must've cost a fortune!" she's virtually chastising the older woman like an outraged parent before turning to Zeak. "Why can't the authority just pay them off? How much more expensive is the strike group going to be?" Oppenhiemer grimaces after tasting his beverage while the exchange goes on. It is now too sweet. "The strike group will be more expensive, but the members of the Direx have no interest in bribing pirates they can beat into submission, especially when the OOAG knows, at least vaguely, who paid the pirates," Zeak replies blandly, "Part of this is pure profit and Aldus Thel making friends in the CSA via bribery, but another part of this, for a sizable minority faction in the CSA, is a desire to be respected, to be something other than Palpatine's bastard child, and that minority sees Aldus Thel's coat tails as a way to accomplish that. If he is going to rise all the way, why not be his left hook?" Zeak pauses here, and takes another sip, trying to decide if the drink is indeed close enough to drinkable to be deemed drinkable. Amaya's reaction only tugs a quiet smile from Ambrosia's otherwise solemn expression. Yes, yes it was. Cost per kilo of cargo delivered, black market price, plus travel and hazard expenses. And some earnest money. Good thing she'd only had two mouths to feed, and Tivadar's pension had finally been released into her account, some months back. Only took them 7 years.... "Sometimes, you don't get what you pay for," the wealthy widow notes and she flicks a few plain old, boring credit chits at Zeak's cup. "Try paying with something that doesn't make them so nervous. A relaxed mind is a functioning one, and a 'functioning' bartista makes a *much* finer cup of stimcaf." She presses that hand into an oncoming yawn. Speaking of relaxed minds... "There's been a bit too much 'beating' for my taste of late and frankly, a bit too much trouble concerning 'bastard children'. I thank you for this warning, so I may advise my fair-weather friends that they ought lay low and seek profits elsewhere, for awhile." A smirk, and she closes her eyes, straightening out of her lean to instead prop an elbow on the table. "How is it, you think, I can be of use to you, then? In the impediment of this ambitious fellow's hopes and dreams?" "Right now?" Zeak replies before shifting back in his chair in thought, "I'm not sure we do, right now -- he'll have to eliminate a large part of the Empire's senior leadership to move up, personally I'm inclined to let him do a little thinning of their future talent pool. The again if you think he is a specifically dangerous threat for some reason?" The question is of course open ended - Ambrosia has no doubt spent more time with Aldus Thel than Zeak has at this point. "F-31 Laser Rifle, bipod mount..." Halos offers ever so helpfully. "...take him out when he's on the refresher, do the whole galaxy a favour." "I was referring to the afore mentioned CSAS Captain deemed in charge of organizing the flotilla - the would-be leader of the coat-tails charge?" A faint smile comes and goes as Ambrosia nods aside to Halo's suggestion. "As appealing as the thought of eliminating Lord Thel may be, it's a bit lofty for our resources." "Oh!" Zeak replies, his eyebrows arching as he is visibly surprised. "That is an interesting thought, but we'd need someone to replace him. Regrettably most of the skilled commanders tend to lean Imperial these days . . ." Zeak's voice trails off before he picks up another thought, an idea has formed in his head, "These pirates, are they friends, acquaintances, or pawns?" "Man's holding an entire commonwealth hostage because wants...what?" Halos snorts derisively. "I don't even know. Maybe they are selling us weapons, so why isn't their senate...assembly, whatever, indicting the executive?" she picks a piece of fruit from her muffin but doesn't seem terribly interested in eating it, dropping it to the pristine white saucer. "Or better yet, fight back. They're willing to give us blasters and let us die for their freedoms, but they won't bleed for it themselves?" "My sentiment exactly," Ambrosia grunts. "Imagine my annoyance at listening to their Minister express that...hesitancy. I can't quite call it cowardice." Rubbing at her chin, she reclines back in her chair. "The /smugglers/ you refer to are loosely professional acquaintances. One of them is under current contract to work exclusively for us...last known," She adds dryly. "The other is a most gregarious sort of personality. The last I saw of her, she and her crewmen had taken up residency in the seasonally abandoned Pallando Estate. Causing quite a ruckuss. I paid a visit to advise her not to direct the authorities to MY door, when they investigated the noise complaints, and she invited me in for what I can best describe as debauchery and lunacy...genuinely appealing, but entirely inappropriate under the circumstances." "If the Pirates were to end up getting smacked around by a star destroyer, and it ever came out that our person was the one that did it," Zeak continues, interlacing his gloved fingers as he develops his idea, "would there be undesirable blow back?" The Ambassador fires a disapproving glare Zeak's way. "From yours truly," she warns, softly. "These people are assets, when needed, and I'd prefer to treat them as people, not 'pawns'. Not to mention the first man to accept my employment was captured during his attempt at running the blockade and spent a stint in 'hotel' Nemesis. He's bled for us, and them. I'd rather not see he and his peers added to the debris field." Inhaling deeply, she parts her gaze to watch some of the cafe employees milling about below. Heavy sigh. What to do...what to do. Halos joins Ambrosia in the disapproving glare. Pirates are pirates, but setting them up to be blown to pieces by the Corporate Authority? That's low. "Fair enough," Zeak replies, as he opens his gloved hands. Knowing better than to continue with the line of reasoning, he is happy to signal that he backing off, "Your man, I don't know exactly who he is, but I'll ask no more questions. But in the meantime, can I work to head off the hawk contingent on the Direx and tell the board that a source in the New Republic government has assured me that neither they, or any pirates operating on their behalf will be attacking the aid flotilla?" Ambrosia nods, slowly. "I will contact the two I'm responsible for bringing to the party and call them off. Our own warships are too occupied by the Imperial fleet to give more than a passing glance at routine aid drops. So long as Direx sticks to the aid delivery routine and doesn't lend a hand blasting my people out of the sky." Flexing her jaw, she drums her fingers lightly on her knees. "I'm afraid my ability to 'guarantee' anything our naval forces do isn't what it used to be. There were some miscommunications surrounding Caspar, I suspect, but cannot yet prove..." a brooding furrow of her brow. "But yes, tell the board we won't be interfering with their humanitarian shipments. It's much against our interest to prolong their suffering, after all." "The board will be pleased to hear that," Oppenhiemer replies with a nod, "I will of course inform you if the Direx decides to send any vessel with a star destroyer classification. If there is to be any deviation from simple transportation duties, I will send word to you personally." He pauses slightly then makes an additional offer, "not to presume, but if there is anything I can help you with, do let me know, I will be on Caspar soon." "So...I have a question." Halos chimes in having taken some quiet time to think through what she's now privy to. "If the Empire's hired you to run its PR stunt, what’s your angle negotiating with the Republic?" she rolls a wooden coffee stirrer thoughtfully through her fingers. "Aren't you bought and paid for?" she ponders, weighing up the likelihood that her muffin is the product of Tagge Industries. "We're terrorists, right? Dealing with us is what got Caspar invaded?" "A jar of ashes," Ambrosia lowers her eyes to study a frayed string that's sprung up between beads on her dress belt. "From what used to be /my/ place of operation, so I can sit it on my next desk as a reminder of what honesty and good faith gets you. And do give my regards to the Prex. I hope they are satisfied with the outcome of their inaction." Standing, she reaches out to place an unsteady hand on Halo's shoulder. "Mr Oppenhiemer isn't in bed with the Empire. He's offering the courtesy of consultation prior to Direx fufilling its assignment, which I do, sincerely, appreciate." "No, no Madame Ambassador," Oppenhiemer replies. As is typical for the former Imperial, his answer is cold, not in a mean way, but in a mechanical, detached way. As if something were not quite right. "I'm happy to answer, as Amaya," the informality is a must unfortunately, for her last name has nor title has yet been used, "and I will likely cross paths again. The Direx asked me to represent its interests in CDU space. No mater how this battle ends, there will be a financial catastrophe from the damage. The question is merely how big, and in what form. Caspar is a major port in the mid-rim, financial instability could spread if left unchecked. Furthermore, rebuilding an economic zone is not just charitable, it is profitable. I was sent to watch, wait, and offer low interest loans and investment, regardless of the outcome of the battle, with some minor strings around the edges. With a little luck such help might even be able to keep Caspar somewhat independent if the Imperial forces win. Regardless, Aldus Thel hired the Direx, and I was attached. I choose to make the best of it, because I don't think a PR battle is worth the suffering that will come from not delivering the supplies. Besides, this sort of shadowy work on the gray margins between worlds is my fate, and my skill set - my time in either their uniform or in your uniform did not exactly work out well for any party. What about you Amaya, what brings you to your line of work?" "Alderaan." Halos replies bluntly. Her jaw fixed, its obviously a subject she doesn't like to talk about. The hand to her shoulder keeps her in her chair though." ---(AND SCENE PAUSE. WILL ADD TO IT LATER WITH A COUPLE WRAP-UP POSES WHEN GET CHANCE)---